


City of Dreadful Delight

by allsorrowsborne



Series: A Feeling, Undefined [3]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Choking, F/F, Jack the Ripper Tour, Knifeplay, POV Second Person, POV Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Season 3, Villanelle's Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24091858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsorrowsborne/pseuds/allsorrowsborne
Summary: Villanelle looks for distraction on the Jack the Ripper tour.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Villanelle | Oksana Astankova/Original Female Character(s)
Series: A Feeling, Undefined [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743235
Comments: 15
Kudos: 77





	City of Dreadful Delight

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Judith Walkowitz's book of the same name.

You move through the city in a blur, head spinning and not from the pain. You travel fast, hoping momentum will keep you from returning and breaking down her door. Soon she will find the teddy bear and then your words will enter her ear, and she will feel it, over and over, and you want to be there entering too.

But Eve is Eve and she will be angry, wrapped in denial and irritation, and now at least you know to wait. Give Eve time. Give Eve space. Give and give until she gives back.

Like she did today.

She made you run! You cannot believe it. You bore the power of a thousand armies, with strength to propel her like she was nothing, and still she made you forgot your purpose, still she made you forget your own smell. You fled from the bus like a frightened kitten and nothing – nothing – has ever felt better. She is not dead. She is not over you. She is going to kiss you again. 

But not tonight. Tonight, you will show her that you can be patient. Tonight, you will show her that you can wait. You will find something to do with this giddiness, something else to do with your hands. You will do it for Eve, always, again.

\---

The tour guide is flirting.

She is close to your age, maybe one or two years younger. She has a confident smile that makes her cheeks dimple and dark brown eyes that dart your way, teasing. Her hair is short, in tight black curls, but plenty to grip if that’s where this goes. It’s not like Eve’s hair and that is ideal. Eve is tomorrow. Eve is forever. You need distraction now.

You join a group of two dozen tourists, families mostly, and follow the guide through East End streets. It is early evening, but the office workers are already drunk, stumbling in and out of pubs, ready for a weekend that isn’t quite here.

The tour guide, Irie, projects her voice, telling stories of murdered women, city slums, immigration, fear and fog on gaslit streets. The names blur together, Mary-Annie-Catherine-Mary, local women, prostitutes.

“Victorian gender politics, innit? They did what they had to do to survive.” She pauses for dramatic effect, then draws a finger across her throat. “Until their luck ran out.”

She directs the group across the street and walks beside you, matching your stride. “It was fuck or get fucked over, babe, you know what I mean? At least they got paid though. At least they knew when they got screwed.”

\---

You turn a corner. A hand-held projector shines images onto a building: handwritten letters, newspaper headlines, sketches of bodies sprawled. Irie tells it like a whodunnit mystery, inviting the crowd to solve the crime.

Eve could do it. You can bring her in summer and walk together, holding hands and sharing laughter, both of you knowing that your kills are better, that you are still a very big deal. Maybe she will fake it for you, fear and horror, and you can put your arm around her, protective. Or maybe she will be bold and honest and pull you into one of these alleys and –

No. You are not here to think of Eve. You shift attention back to the guide.

“Jack the Ripper!” Her voice is commanding. “The kills were brutal. The crimes sensational. They never discovered who he – or she – was.” She catches your eye and winks.

Irie spins the details. Copycat killers and media hoaxes. Dread and delight for public consumption. She lingers over the murdered bodies. A severed ear. A kidney removed and sent to police. Dismemberment, a signature move.

Frank, castrated, wearing Eve’s dress. The one that you bought her, the one that she wore when –

Irie is beside you again. She lets her shoulder brush your arm. “He cut out pieces of their vaginas. I’m not supposed to say that out loud.”

\---

The tour ends at the museum.

You buy a replica postcard splattered with blood. The killer posted it to a journalist, to boast of crimes and taunt police. You will send it to Eve. What will you write now you’ve moved past taunting? Nothing clever comes to mind. You pick out a souvenir t-shirt, with police sniffer dogs pictured on the front. Eve could put it on after sex, as she leaves your bed to get some water. Normal shit.

The teenage boy at the till takes your money and asks Irie if she can stay to lock up. “I told my mum I’d be home by ten.”

She invites you to join her. She offers you a private tour. “I can tell you more stuff that I’m not supposed to say.”

You follow her downstairs into the basement. It is staged as a mortuary, with a tan leather bench for laying out corpses. There are autopsy pictures on the wall. She taps the bench with a knowing smile: “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

\---

You sit on the bench, surrounded by dead women’s faces, and wait for a live one to reappear.

Feelings escape their casing. Move in when you least expect them, leave before you know their name. 

It hasn’t been the same since Eve. Her body fell, her blood pooled, and you didn’t even look. You walked away before the best part, at least it used to be the best part, staring into panicked eyes, desperate, grasping, needing you. The most you know of honest connection, the power of overseeing its end.

You didn’t want to look at Eve.

You haven’t looked since.

You tried in Catalonia. But she had that hair, all mess and curl and memory, and you were fury and no finesse. Empty eyes. Angry kill. You mimicked Dasha to fill the void.

Copycat killer.

Your body does things to other bodies. Fuck or get fucked over, right? At least you get paid though. At least you know when you get screwed.

\---

Irie is back with a bottle of gin and souvenir shot glasses, etched with a double-decker bus. They’re balanced on top of a box of knives.

“The kids on the school tours kept trying to nick them. We had to move them into the back.”

A random collection. Butcher knives, scalpels, industrial switchblades. Different sizes, most unsheathed. You pick up a six-inch knife with cracked wooden handle and blackened blade. Single bevel, tight angle. Surgeon’s knife? You turn it over, feel the weight, test the sharpness. Dull.

“Is this a toy?”

“Top quality replica antique, actually. That one is made from high-grade stainless steel, with a solid brass guard and handle made from – ”

You like women who know their craft.

She sees your smile. “Or a toy to play with, if that’s what you want.” 

You can do this. Your free hand is at the small of her back, pulling firmly. Your feet wrap her calves, locking her in.

“You want to play with knives?”

“That’s my day job.” She shrugs her shoulders, like it’s nothing. “Now I want to play with you.”

The prop knife is solid. You test its force against your forearm. Fingers lightly on her throat. You feel the pulse that almost mocks you. Blood choke. It’s been a while. Irie seems to know what you’re doing. She meets your eyes and tilts her head.

She knows what she wants. You like that. She wants you. You like that more. Why can’t Eve just –

It won’t take much. Carotid arteries close to the surface, thumb to the muscle that slides aside. You press firmly with the flat of the blade, limiting blood flow to her brain. Start. Stop. Start. It’s better when you do it slow.

She leans in, breath shallow, hands to balance herself on your thighs. More pressure, gasps muffled. Start. Stop. Your eyes widen. Hers flutter. Eve kept her eyes open. Start. Stop. 

You pause to kiss her. Her mouth is soft and opens easily. Tongue inside, teeth on lip. Eve didn’t –

You want to feel it. You put down the knife and use your fingers. Skin indents and arteries give. Not much longer. You break the kiss and shift position.

“Hmm, your smell.” Voice raspy. Smell me Eve.

“Look at me.” You nod once to show it’s coming, push fingers into tissue. Hold. It takes seconds. You are professional. Jerk. Collapse. You lay down her limp body and gather your things.

“Eve kissed me.”

She will stir in less than a minute, head spinning, heart racing. Sex like this would feel amazing. You crouch and study her closed eyes. ~~~~

“Eve kissed me.”

A thrill to say it. An unconscious woman if that’s what it takes. You watch her breathing, eyelids flickering. Only moments until she’s awake.

“Eve kissed me.”

You can’t stop smiling. You say it again, one more time.

“Eve kissed me. I have to leave now. She might be wondering where I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comment/kudos if you like it and say hi on twitter @olderthaneve.


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